


Confessional

by agenthill



Series: Let Not My Prayers a Doubtful Answer Find [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine makes a confession; Leliana offers absolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hinterlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/gifts).



> In October Skitch (Hinterlands/cassandrapentagay) and I started joking about writing a knifeplay fic in response to what we felt was an overwhelming amount of vanilla fic in femslash. Well, Skitch was joking. I took them seriously.
> 
> This is the result.
> 
> Cross-posted to [tumblr](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/tagged/rory+writes/).

            The knife Leliana produces from somewhere on her person is wicked and sharp.  Lightly, she runs the blade across one fingertip, eyes fixed upon the droplet of blood that springs forth in its wake, how perfectly round, reflecting the candlelight.  Josephine is not naive, knows what it means when The Nightingale produces a knife.  Funny, she thinks, that this is how it ends.  Wishes that she could say this was the first time she let her guard down in front of the infamous bard, assassin, spy.  Or the second, or the third.  Wishes this intimacy were something new, but cannot wish it away entirely.  One thousand nights spent together in cover of darkness, one thousand thousand kisses exchanged between hushed whispers, one knife.  One knife, and this is how it ends.

            But Leliana does not strike. 

            This is how it begins.

            It begins with a confession.  Not a confession of lovers, a murmur in the afterglow or an impassioned declaration, a confession of a different sort.  Hands trembling, eyes not able to make contact.  Not embarrassed, but ashamed.  "I am not as innocent as you think me to be."

            "Is that so?" asks Leliana.

            Josephine's eyes flick lower still, before she raises them, like her mother taught her, look them in the eye, and they will never know you are afraid.  "Yes," says she, and nothing more.

            "Perhaps," Leliana practically purrs, sliding one finger down Josephine's exposed chest, "You would like to confess?"

            In a culture of confession, where one is compelled to lay oneself bare again, and again, before Andraste, before the Chantry, before oneself, Josephine knows that there can be no truly uncoerced confession, that the bond of sacred trust one thinks a confession to comply cannot exist, but she wants to.  To tell this to Leliana must surely be cathartic, must free her of the specter of guilt, and Leliana must surely be the one to offer her absolution.  Because she tells herself this, it can become so.  While she cannot, in truth, be said to want to confess, she wishes to, and deeply.  And so she does.

            When the words come forth, they are measured, steady as she has been trained for them to be, and if her breath hitches, if her voice trembles in the telling, who should say?  Flawed diction is the least of her sins.

            So, haltingly, she tells of her most abject failure, her greatest sin, how panic at the flash of a man's knife compelled her to end a life long before its time.  All the while, Leliana listens, receives her confession, but withholds all judgement.  Not a word does she speak until Josephine is finished, nor does she make a gesture which may be construed to be carrying some hidden meaning, an assessment of any kind, she is a silent witness. 

            As Josephine concludes, she finds herself gathered into Leliana's arms, and is, to a degree comforted by Leliana's words, spoken at last, a pronouncement that she has committed no great sin.  To a degree.  In truth... the act of confessing, no matter how intimate, has left her feeling dissatisfied more than ever.

            To bring into the light that which she has kept hidden for years, it should be freeing, should be lift a heavy burden from her shoulders, she should feel younger, her soul lighter, and she does, but free she is not.  Not in fact.  Leliana may forgive her, may not care that Josephine has done this, but Josephine has not forgiven herself.

            There are in silence for a time, long enough that Josephine's breaths come slowly and she is nearly asleep, head resting on the right side of Leliana's chest; for even in so intimate a setting, Leliana has expressed a preference that Josephine not listen to her heartbeat, likely a holdover from her own barding days.

            Leliana breaks the silence by asking, "What did I do wrong?  This should have helped you, no?  But instead you are more hurt than ever.  Let me in."

            It is not a command, not the way Leliana says it, but again comes the compulsion to confess, the thought she cannot shake that if she says something here, anything, then they will be closer somehow, that her secrets can be binding.  But what more has she to say?  That she still feels guilt, Leliana already knows.  That fear--of the knife, of a loss of life, of a loss of control--transformed her in that moment to something other than she has ever been?  How could she say it, when she knows not how she feels about this transformation, whether she is afraid of what she became, whether or not it ought to make her feel silly to say such a thing to Leliana, who has been in direr circumstances time and again without losing herself, whether this is the sort of thing that her mother would tell her must stay silent, safe and hidden away, lest she give too much of herself away and lose herself to another person.

            So she says nothing.

            Or, rather, she speaks, but says nothing of substance, says that she is confused, that she is afraid, that she does not know why.  To say anything more would be intolerable, and the matter is, for some weeks dropped.

            By the time Leliana pulls a knife on her, Josephine has almost... not forgotten, as such a thing would be impossible, but set aside the conversation.  Until Leliana speaks, Josephine's confession is the furthest thing from her mind.  (Truth be told, there is very little in her mind at the moment, just a deep sense of betrayal, of confusion, of loss.  Without a social script to adhere to, Josephine is unsure how to act, without a social script, Josephine has killed.)

            But Leliana speaks, before Josephine can act rashly, and Josephine will never know what she might have said, what she might have done.  In truth, there is scarcely more than a moment between Leliana drawing the knife and when she tells Josephine of her purpose in doing so.  A moment enough for a lifetime, two sets of eyes transfixed by the sight of a knife and the blood which springs forth from the skin, in some strange way beautiful.

            "This will help," says Leliana with firmest conviction, although she does not specify with what.  Josephine knows, knows with the same weight of knowing that hung between them at the moment of confession.  So that is what this is about.

            "You were afraid," says Leliana, "afraid of your own power, your ability to kill.  Afraid of your own fear at the sight of the knife in another's hands.  Afraid of who you are when you are not in control of the situation.  I understand."  A moment of hesitation, and a confession of her own, if masked, "Such fears are not so uncommon as you might think."

            "I have been considering this, you know, how I could help you.  I cannot say with certainty that it is the answer but, it cannot hurt to try, yes?  Or, well perhaps it shall hurt, but briefly and... not severely."

            Typical of Leliana, Josephine thinks, to talk around the problem, not actually telling Josephine what she has in mind.  Which is not to say that such is a bad trait, in and of itself, Leliana being far more adventurous than she, it is the only way that she can be convinced to go along with a good many things.  Still, she must ask.

            Her voice does not tremble as she does so, of that she is certain.  With Leliana, one must be direct, must ask clearly, must be sure one wishes to know the answer, or the matter will never be addressed head-on.  So Josephine has adapted, despite her own tendency towards... diplomatic avoidance, and Leliana is willing to meet her halfway.  Direct questions get direct answers, but if neither of them can bear to bring into their dialogue specifically what it is they are speaking of, it remains liminal, both within and without their speech.  Sometimes Josephine thinks that she could fill a library with what they do not say.

            But this, a clear question, receives an answer, "You are going to surrender control, just for the moment.  I thought that if you could do this, could relax beneath the knife in the hands of one you love, then you might feel less fear in the future.  You trust me, yes?  And should you panic, there are no stairs here down which to fall."

            A part of Josephine thinks that she ought to be afraid, ought to fear a knife in the hand of Leliana, who has been trained to kill since she was a girl, but the larger part of her trusts Leliana, trusts that she knows whereof she speaks on matters of combat and of love, both of which she has more experience with than Josephine.  Another part of her, which Josephine does not believe she would ever admit to, cannot help but think this baring of herself, this surrender of power wholly, cannot be seen as anything other than deeply erotic.  Unlike her confession, tinged with guilt and tainted by the pressure to speak, in this she is to be absolved, to give herself wholly of her own volition.  Power can never be fully removed from a situation, but the ways in which it is applied can be subverted and in this, a situation in which Josephine will allow herself to be wounded so that she may heal, she can only think of as a subversion; in surrendering control of a situation, she gains control over herself.  It is wrong, one might tell her, improper, sinful, even, but she has been all of those things before, and it is only now that she may embrace them.

            So when Josephine accepts, she does so with certainty.  This is what she needs, this is what she wants.  For her part, Leliana moves slowly, as if time were not a concern, as if they had nothing better in the world to do.  No hesitance mars her movements, they are fluid and purposeful, a casual exhibition of the power Leliana's muscles contain, and although Josephine knows that what they are doing now is not sex, not as she would hear it defined by others, she cannot deny that this is sexual, that the act of being undressed by a lover, her body the object of scrutiny, surrendered willingly, is reminiscent of so many other tableaux, all of them sexual.

            Perhaps that is why she is comfortable, the similarity of the scene to the sexual granting her enough familiarity that she does not worry, even as the knife flashes in the corner of her eye.  Instead, feeling the silks slide from her body, the contrast of Leliana's calloused archer's fingers following, she finds her breaths quicken, her heart races, not in fear, but in arousal.  When she has been completely divested of her clothing Leliana trails a forefinger from the center of her lips to the mole on her chin, down her neck and across a collarbone, and must see how her lips part, how her pupils have likely gone wide, and trails the knife along the same path, hilt first, never making a mark, cold steel following the trail of warm fingers.  She shivers, in response to the way she is being seen or the physical sensation, she cannot be sure, and Leliana's lips curl into a smile.

            A gentle push backwards by Leliana's open palm, and Josephine allows herself to be backed up to the bed.  Like a dance, she steps back and Leliana advances, they separate before coming back together.  Fighting, too, is compared to dancing, but Josephine reminds herself this is no battle, exchanges of power need not be facilitated by force.  There is nothing, here, to be taken, only given, freely and without reservation.  Thus it is easy to follow Leliana's direction back onto the bed, easy to allow herself to be lead, she is giving her body over to Leliana's control, is being given in turn this chance at redemption.  It is easy, for once, to follow, to surrender, to be free from the trappings of station and propriety and control which have so bound her in the past.

            On her back, Leliana kneeling above her, a knee beside each of her hips, all Josephine sees is Leliana, her world narrowing to the warmth where they touch, skin on skin, to the way the knife reflects the flickering torchlight, cold silver infused with warmth for an instant.  In truth, Leliana is not Josephine's world entire, and Josephine would not be happy if she were, but it is nice, at times, to pretend, to be taken in by the fantasy that there is nothing beyond them, that there are no troubles outside of this room.  Like this, Josephine feels safe enough to allow her mind to wander, to think not in terms of diplomacy and necessity but instead in those of pleasure and intimacy.  Were it not for Leliana grasping her chin with a free hand, commanding her attention, Josephine could almost lose herself entirely.

            "Where did you push him," and when Leliana says it there is no question in her voice, it takes on a different quality entirely from the musical lilt to which Josephine is accustomed.  She knows she should answer, feels compelled to, but she has had no words for her encounter with the bard since her confession.  Leliana grows impatient, Josephine can see it in her face.

            "Show me," says she, and Josephine does, bringing a hand to her clavicle, just above her breast, feels her own heart beating through her chest as she does so.  The other hand she places lower, in the curve beneath her right breast, remembers the feeling of a doublet beneath her hands as her chest rises and falls.

            There is a pause, as Leliana seems to assess her, to take the measure of her person and of the situation, before gesturing that her hands be moved.  Under such a gaze, it is hardly surprising that Josephine finds herself growing wet; she has nothing to relate this to but sex, no other form of intimacy has she known that has enveloped her so completely. 

            The first cut of the knife, its blade penetrating her flesh, is like a release.  Cold metal and warm blood are in contrast and the pain of it is burning, sharp and stinging.  She gasps, very nearly jerks--would have were it not for the weight of Leliana's free hand at the base of her throat, holding her down.  It is brief, the first cut, over almost before it has begun, tracing her clavicle in a mirror of the earlier trail of Leliana's finger.

            "Be still," commands her lover, "Relax, trust me, and I shall not harm you," and so Josephine does.

            When the second cut comes, parallel to the first, Josephine notices the blood seeping, how warm it feels as it slides down her body, spills onto the sheets, a single trail of it.  She thinks of impurity, of the stained sheets of her youth, and wonders if guilt, like innocence, can be lost, if it is brought forth from her even now, a drop for a drop, blood for blood to match that of her victim.

            She finds she is adjusting to the pain quickly, and when Leliana moves the knife lower to the location of her second hand, Josephine finds it almost does not bother her.  This, she can adjust to, this pain she can bear, in a way that she never could bear the guilt of having killed.  By the time Leliana actually carves a crescent beneath her breast, the pain in her collarbone has reduced to a dull ache, not unlike the throbbing between her legs.  A fine line, pleasure and pain, guilt and innocence, life and death. 

            Again, the knife parts her skin, and she is open before Leliana, in a way she has not been before.  Literally, yes, but in other ways she feels that Leliana can better see inside her now than ever, can see what she is made of, red and hot and wet.  Save for the tight control by which she holds herself still she is nothing like she has appeared before Leliana in the past, is truly bare before her. 

            Josephine is not Andrastian, not in the truest sense of believing, but she knows well enough that the Maker sees all, that he knows what lies inside the hearts of all, and with the way Leliana now regards her, seeing inside, knowing everything which she has hidden, not even skin separating them as full lips move down to kiss wounds and come up red with blood, Josephine knows what it is to truly be seen and judged.

            What she wanted when she confessed, the intimacy of it, Josephine could not put into words, but there can never be words for an act such as murder.  The deed had been done wordlessly, and no amount of speaking could undo it--but action, the cut of a knife, the pressure of a body atop her own, can turn back time, can rewrite what was done.  Nothing can bring back the man whom she killed, but the part of her which died, that Leliana can return to her, can do so by bleeding out the guilt, by consuming the blood, her sin itself.

            Josephine hardly notices that she is crying until Leliana brings a finger to her face, wipes away the tear that spilled.  Suddenly the emotions of the moment crash upon her at once--before they felt like a dream, like something that was happening to someone else, but now she is here and she has done something terrible and this is known, yet she is forgiven.  All at once it is upon her, like a release, she is shaking and Leliana holds her, whispers sweet nothings until she calms.

            The blood has stopped flowing by the time she calms, feels empty.  There is no guilt left for her to remove, no trace of impurity, she is cleansed, safe and whole in Leliana's arms.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
